Long Path of Recovery Act 14
by Darkwood
Summary: Follow up events to the series set in play layout. Format switches from POVs to 3rd person narratives. Summary in first part, along with author's note.
1. Interlude - As Different as Night and Da...

Act Fourteen: Long Path of Recovery

Act Fourteen: Long Path of Recovery

By Darkwood

Time has passed since Roger faced Red Destiny and the Trio of the apocalypse. Big Duo lies in the hands of Alex Rosewater, but the Negotiator has bigger demons to fight before worrying about the copy-like counterpart to Big O. Faced with an injury, and the only person capable of tending him with Big O back to its prior state of unavoidable disrepair, Roger is trapped by his nightmares and his caretaker, Dorothy, whose resemblance to R*D is so striking he fears her presence. Can Paradigm's top Negotiator free himself of his demons and return to business as usual, or has the moral-minded ex-Military Police Lieutenant finally met his match?

in his fevered dreams, Roger hides the key to a large mystery that calls him back to the past, a familiar rundown house twelve blocks from the Smith mansion. Dorothy, understanding his wish for privacy, does not pry into his problems, but attempts to comfort him as best she can without much prior knowledge of either the action or the sensation. Has the enigmatical young android-woman finally achieved her apparent long-term goal of human emulation, or is it something more?

_AN: Time does not pass sequentially from part to part in this, and at times there will be flashbacks within a part set in the virtual 'present' of the fic. All titles are working titles. At times the perspective will change to a certain person in 3rd person, for instance the dining room scene were in Roger's eyes he uses Dorothy's name but since that part is in the 3rd objective I also use 'that girl' in Angel's viewpoint. Artistic license taken here, in case you were wondering, and I carry the thing everywhere I go._

_I don't know how long this act will be, so I'll just say expect anywhere from six to ten parts, including interludes, and the length depends on the emotions evoked by the events, or memories as the case may be. I might put my take on what happened during the short time between R*D and my Act Fourteen during Act Fifteen, but I am not yet sure of that._

_Also, the first parts of this are more emotionally oriented than most of the Big O episodes are. I decided that rather than give only short glimpses into the characters' feelings, I would go slightly 'Deeper' as Mikage would say. The action will come in time, after Scene 3, I believe. The structure of these Acts as I write them is rooted in the play format that is oft used in script writing. The Scenes are generally longer than the Interludes, but some of these break that rule. Dorothy's depth will be explained in Act Fifteen._

Act Fourteen – Interlude: As Different as Night and Day 

_'It suddenly occurred to me that my whole life's emotions culminated in her synthetic being, and I wondered if I hadn't taken a blow to the head and fallen into purgatory or if I was really and sincerely faced with the possibility that my unworthy person was in love with a perfect angel that was mimicked by the devil herself.'_

Every morning I wake to two things. And both are the same. Her face.

And yet neither are the same.

Thus springs my nightmare into reality.

I can still recall the words she called in that eerie voice, as she chased me, not aloud, but every now and then someone will say something that sets it off. If I could do anything in the world it would be to forget the events that transpired… is it? Yes, almost a full month ago and still I can't sleep at night.

I have two different visions when I am scared, what I see and what is happening. More than once I've felt myself screaming only to feel her cool, tender touch upon my brow. She does not touch me anywhere and only at night, but she does comfort me during the twilight hours. I have but to speak in a whisper and she will come, slipping unafraid through the darkness carrying a single candle, more for my benefit than hers, and she will sit next to me on the bed and gently wipe away my tears or the sweat from my brow, the too long straps of her sleeping gown falling down to blend with her crushed velvet wrap. I wonder if she feels cold at all.

Or is the wrap for my benefit as well?

I do not know, but I do know that she is the angel – my savior from the dark, and yet also its harbinger. I think she senses it as well, though she cannot possibly understand how it torments me to see the melancholy in her disposition deepen to sorrow as she sees fear in my eyes when I look at her. I feel so sorry. It is my weakness, I should suffer, not she. She has done nothing except exist and the crime that lies in existence is one that no mortal, human or no, has ever overcome.

So I lie here panting, and the door to my room opens quietly, and closes just so.

She walks in movements appearing more graceful with the adult cut of her nightgown, towards me, a creature of pure imagination, a vision of pleasure and delight. I can feel myself sweating all over; see the crazed, wide eyes of RD set upon her face. "Roger…"

"Dorothy?" my voice is broken, it sounds so frail. My mind cannot take much more of this. I cannot live a lie, not telling her. She takes her seat, perching precariously near the edge, one delicate knee elevated from the resting position of the other to support her weight and balance her as she leans in towards me. Her arm, extended, propels her hand towards me, and her cool skin brushes against my temple and flits across my brow.

"Roger, I am causing you anguish."

I do not know how to reply.

"I am not sure how, or why, but it is the truth, is it not?" I nod, dumbly. "Do you wish me to leave you alone? I can return to my room if I am bothering you." She begins to pull away, the gentlest touch of the pads of her fingers ghosting back towards her fey body.

"No," I respond, reaching out towards her. She grasps one of my hands in her own, small fingers somehow engulfing my larger hand in the gray light of the evening. Her delicate fingers making white bars over that bridge of my knuckles.

Her other hand moves up and brushes my temples again, petite fingers slowly tracing over one of my eyebrows and then down to wipe the tears from my cheek. It feels like we are in some old tale of a girl and a monster that had been thus transformed from his human state by his own actions towards a powerful being he wronged. Fate is a hard mistress, she turned me out three years ago when I mistook my duty for my beliefs, and I pay every day for that mistake.

I close my eyes and she runs her thumb gently over the flesh there, and I feel sleep begin to reclaim my fevered body and tortured mind. "Stay," I whisper, my voice coarse in even my own ear.

She changes her position a little and whispers a low response that I cannot make out as I slip back into my dreams.

And the two of us… we are not the same, though we are one half of the same whole… we are just as different as we can get and still share certain things in common.


	2. Interlude - Precious Little Help

Act Fourteen – Interlude: Plenty

Act Fourteen – Interlude: Precious Little Help

_'His eyes were wild and it stirred in me a reaction. I had felt some obligation to protect him before, but it had never even been as close as a far cry to the care I supposed humans felt for each other. I distanced myself by saying that I was merely fulfilling my contract in the best way I knew how. But as soon as I saw his eyes wild and fearful of me… my heart cracked. Or at least what heart I have.'_

His sleep is tortured and I cannot help him.

I feel responsible on some basic level for his pain. The faithful servant of the tormented master feels the blame of something she did not do. The choice now is relatively simple. I should leave to spare him pain. Tonight was to be my last evening in the Smith Mansion. But tonight… his words were so desperate, as though I was his only anchor to reality anymore. The thought shocks me so. How could a machine anchor Roger to anything?

Certainly Big O has pull with his attachments and movements, but I am not the mega deuce. I am only the mechanical reincarnation of a cherished memory. He should not care for me, and I… should not care for him. It has been almost a month since the fight in the harbor, and the facts are still jumbled in my mind. Was there a reason he didn't see me? I think there was.

He rarely speaks of his emotions, or gives any semblance that he might be acting upon them, so… why do I think he is holding them back around me? It has never been so before.

Perhaps it was the battle that changed him. Or whatever happened to his arm.

He looked so… surprised and… happy to see me when the cockpit opened.

And now he wishes me to remain with him. I hope he realizes just what I meant when I said that I would leave him alone. But still… if he continues in this shell then perhaps I shall have to leave him alone, even though I shall remain here, because I am not worth his pain.

Nothing left to do but keep his demons from him, for now. I shall remain alert, however, in case he gives me any more clues… or signals.


	3. Scene 1 - Recollections

Act Fourteen – Scene 1: Recollections

Act Fourteen – Scene 1: Recollections

AN: This weekend I'm headed to a family reunion, so I decided to post three parts tonight to make up for my inability to post tomorrow much. Tuesday I will be leaving for a trip to out to the east coast to visit relatives along the shore. I will be taking a laptop (whether it will be the one I ordered or not depends on the Dell people who are delivering it) and the fragmented parts of this story.

I would like to thank all of the people who reviewed the first two parts. Your encouragement and comments are greatly appreciated, and I hope to read more. To the people wondering about the lack of dialogue (and I have had several discussions on this topic with other people concerned about the same deficiency) the dialogue picks up right after the interlude following this scene, which is entitled 'In Your Arms' and goes into a more poetical prose style of an earlier mentioned vignette that will recur in this scene, 'Recollections,' please bear with me for a few more parts. This Act continues to grow and grow as I go into the details of Roger's first case after his ordeal, and I am currently on part 12, Scene 7: 'Card Reader' and am not even halfway through the case. 

As for the length of these parts, they do get longer as time progresses. Incidentally, the dialogue picks up more in Scene 2: Demons and Angels, and continues thereafter. I have the basic layout of these parts finished, but the exchanges of spoken word require more than just the speaker and their name to be suitable for the sequence of events I have chosen to follow. More in-depth perceptions of characters even I have been neglecting, such as Norman Burg, Alex Rosewater, and Angel. Several mysteries will be cleared up, while a few more are given. 

But enough of my rambling and onto the story.

_'I knew nothing of the world but him. And now I know more of the world, and I understand that all I need is him. At the time I had the two confused. I thought it was emotion, the trappings of the human being I had not yet acquired, and that would make me feel whole. At times they did, when he would mention my progress or spare me a glance untainted by any emotion other than pride and… sometimes… respect.'_

For the first week after the battle with the trio of mega deuces, the worried and anxious Norman confined Roger to his bed. Dorothy took charge soon after his wounds were treated, since Norman needed to overhaul Big O again. Big Ear had contacted the manor three days after the battle with the simple words, 'Duo lives.' Both android and butler knew what that meant, and had begun preparations to rehabilitate both Big O and its pilot as quickly as possible.

Upon waking from a state of slumber that lasted two full days, Roger opened lucid eyes to see Dorothy's face hovering just at the edge of his field of vision. His reaction, though silent, was immediate. His muscles grew taut and his eyes widened with fear and a vigilant guard, his only response to her queries a frightened look as though he expected her to attack him. She did not understand his response; it was as though he wasn't really seeing her or the area around him.

Slowly he had come to accept her presence, but it was still another day before he would take anything from her. She did not alert Norman so that the butler would remain calm and continue his work on the mega deuce. Soon, however, she began to fear she had made the wrong decision in not telling the butler of his charge's actions.

Roger, restless, had been sullen and withdrawn to the point that Dorothy began to think that he would not recover confined to the gigantic prison of silk sheets and thick, firm cushion, and allowed him to walk the room. Slowly at first, with her body pressed close to guide his weaker one, but soon she allowed him to walk around by himself, giving the tortured soul back part of its freedom.

Somehow the wound in his arm had caused some damage to his mind in the form of resurfacing his memories, and so doing, some debilitated form of his once healthy emotions. The stress had caused what would have been called before the Incident, a breakdown.

He could do little else by himself, despite his wishes, but pace slowly the circle of his room and bathe himself, since his arm was still mending slowly. His pallor was sallow and greenish still on the fourth day, and Dorothy wanted to call a doctor. She said as much to Roger, who had spoken very little, if at all, in the four days she had been tending him.

He immediately protested, and she relented. He was finally well enough to function on a semi-normal level, and so she allowed him to leave the room and act on his own accord. Her one requirement was that he wear a sling for his wounded appendage, to which he agreed morosely.

She brought the logic to mind that it was a small price to pay for the liberty of movement he lacked while forced to keep his upper body still so he would not jar his wound. She relented in her constant vigilance at his side, and went back to her own room on the fifth night, only to be awoken from her blank-state by noises from his room.

She entered the room quietly and stood near the bed, a familiar post since the battle, but without her normal nonchalant indifference. As she watched he began to struggle more frantically, one hand going to the shoulder of the wounded arm, as though to keep it still. His movements were in vain, however, and so she intervened. She sat down gently on the bed next to him and put a hand to his forehead in order to wake him.

His eyes jerked open and he stared at her in a mix of wild fear and incomprehension. He was guarded – body tense and shaking.

"Roger, you were having a nightmare," she said slowly.

It took several more minutes to assure his battered wits and bruised psyche that she was, indeed, R. _Dorothy_ Waynewright and this was his home and it was four in the morning. She did not ask why he was having the nightmares, she could tell it was from when he received the bullet wound to his arm, and she refrained from commenting on the fear in his eyes. He had not mentioned what transpired, so she did not inquire after the facts. She felt it best that way, but was saddened that he only had the skittish and guarded look in his eyes when he looked upon her.

For the following week things progressed normally. His arm began to heal properly and swifter than it had been, though his color was slower to return to its normal healthy tone. He continued to have restless dreams at night, and Norman, ever vigilant, once got to the room before Dorothy had roused herself in time, and then came directly to the door of her room, where he requested she look in on Roger since he could do nothing for his ailing master.

The dreams were not always the same. Sometimes he did not see the imprint of her face in the hideous mask of Red Destiny; sometimes it was memories that returned to him. Long distant things he had believed he had trapped away for good on the day that Fate abandoned him. He saw his mother, yet again, and imagined Dorothy her image, protecting him, and then still other things. The day of the murder, the look of those green eyes staring lifelessly at some far distant point he could not even imagine, the body soaked in blood… and the impression of a building he could not quite make out…all things he sequestered in a vault at the pit of his soul in order to protect himself. Demons he believed long perished.

All the remaining scraps of his hidden self strung themselves out in his dreams, and the only being that made him feel even a bit of emotion woke him from their taunting haunting of his mind. He looked up into her eyes, those saving, damning eyes, and he sometimes cried. It dismayed her to see him like that.

She was more at ease with him when he did not bear himself to her, but his façade – the trademark of the Negotiator, his laid back and impassive personality. She more enjoyed the barbed version to the truth. It was against her previous decision, but she wanted the old Roger back.

She had, from time to time, been curious to know what shaped the black clad Negotiator since she had started treading within the cage bars of his rules, and she finally had her answers, but they were not those she was looking for.

It had been a basket of flowers she had expected, perhaps a few weeds, but not the den of the lions. She could almost feel the dark figures prowling around her, they invaded her thoughts at times these shadows of his past should not have, and eventually, realization dawned on her. She was feeling all of these things he was experiencing. She was sympathizing, or at least empathizing with his pain instinctively.

She cared about him. 

Roger Smith. 

The louse. 

She cared for the old Roger Smith, and was working her hardest to bring him back out of the petrified shell he had raised up when the memories washed over him. She wanted him back to his normal self. She yearned for even the smallest glimmer of hope that the person he once was lie hibernating inside him somewhere. She…

And she began to wonder if her synthetic body could hold a soul. It certainly held a heart.


	4. Interlude - In Your Arms

Act Fourteen – Interlude: In Your Arms

Act Fourteen – Interlude: In Your Arms

_'It is said that the dream state is where we explore the information the day has brought us through our senses. Others say that the dream is, in effect, the achievement of our fondest and most secret wishes. Wishes that we, in our conscious, may not even recognize._

_'It felt like heaven.'_

The gray light of the day seeps into the room as two pairs of eyes open slowly and meet the other. Two bodies, tangled close after a night of restlessness and a dawn of repose, are curled up warm together in the large bed. Pale, slender palms up against a strong chest, and a wide, strong hand splayed over a small hip. No words are spoken, and for a long moment the quiet of the morning hour reverberates into their troubled souls. A small, genuine smile tugs on his lips and his eyes drift closed, fingers tightening momentarily in a gentle squeeze. She stares at his face, loose and free of the lingering emotions brought by his nightmares, and moves one hand to slowly caress his cheek, taking in the texture of his skin and her own reactions to it and the situation, and storing the memory deep in her 'mind.'

For another fleeting moment she basks in the comfort of the position, feeling her heart beat a little quicker and yet steadier at such close and sudden proximity to his almost overwhelming person. She allows herself to be engulfed by his stationary hands, one on her hip and the other with its back cushioning her head since the position curled near him denies her temples access to the pillows.

And as the moment following rears its ugly head she starts her slow detachment, moving so calculatedly that the hand holding her hip slides to the sheets as though it had always been there, and her own fingertips pull away as though moving through water and not from flesh covered in silk. She allows herself a single glance back at him as she closes the door slowly and finds herself forced, by some internal weakness, to prop herself upright against the wall next to it, lest she reach the floor before her own room.

As she makes her careful, barefoot way down the hall her aural sensors pick up a mumbled whisper of, "Dorothy," and her heart misses a beat, alarming her.

Once safe inside the four imprisoning walls of her own room, she touches her hip in his manner, to test the circuits and see if she herself can evoke the same reaction.

She fails, and murmurs in a cryptic tone, "Roger."

** **


	5. Scene 2 - Demons and Angels

Act Fourteen – Scene 2: Demons and Angels

Act Fourteen – Scene 2: Demons and Angels

_'I could never explain what intuitive sense I felt, but it all came for naught when I entered that room and saw her standing there, her thin frame made angular-like by the cut of her dress. She looked no older than twelve or thirteen, and yet the strength in her hands alone could have crushed my will as though it were a piece of waste paper. And when I saw her sit down to the piano, I was angry because she could do something I could not. It was her words that handed out my final sentencing. I perceived in them two things – that she was a machine, and that she was more a woman than I had ever been in my life.'_

The clock reads 8:26 am, and Dorothy sits down at the piano with her fingers poised to lift the dust cover and reveal the keys for the first time in nearly a month and six days. She scans her memory for a suitable, no, for the appropriate song to wake Roger from his slumber when a voice interrupts her thoughts exteriorly.

"Miss Dorothy, there is a visitor coming up," Norman says with distaste.

"Who is it, Norman?" her voice is cool; she already knows who it will be without asking. She reasons that it will be same visitor that attempted to gain entrance during Roger's 'leave of absence,' and had been turned away at the door. The blond haired vixen probably forced herself in through the door and proceeded upstairs to try and beat the butler.

Not so easy in a house such as this one. Not when the butler knows every nook and cranny and secret hall and weak point in the entire building and is fit enough to run up ten flights of stairs with ease.

"Miss Patricia Lovejoy," Norman says hinting ever so heavily that he would have used 'Casey Jenkins' instead.

Dorothy does not respond, but continues to contemplate the proper song. The clock changes to read eight-thirty in the morning, and the sky is overcast a darker gray than normal. Norman moves to stand at the gate to the elevator and Dorothy hears him ask her to please wait a moment.

"Dorothy, will you wake Master Roger? Miss Lovejoy says it is imperative she speak with him directly." Norman bristles.

"Immediately, I surmise," Dorothy replies, deciding to forgo the piano music this morning since the routine is broken from its normal cycle anyway. She gently opens the door to Roger's room and steps inside, closing it behind her.

"She can't just go into his room, what if he isn't decent," Angel mutters.

"The two of them are not restricted by such limitations, Miss Lovejoy. Or is it Miss Jenkins? It would be like myself asking for your coat." Norman stands rigid and stiff, his only form of protest against the guest to his young master's house.

"It isn't proper," she counters, arrogance high for an interloper.

"Well it isn't your house so you worry about proper on your own time," Roger snaps, robe wrapped around him securely, hair tousled without any attempt to change its state from that of sleep. "Now what the hell do you want?" he asks coarsely.

He had been dreaming the first peaceful dream in an entire month when Dorothy had gently woken him and relayed the message 'Angel' had given Norman. Complacent with Dorothy's wake up call being in person, but angry at the necessity, he had decided to take it out on the source and not the messenger. So he got out of bed and got into the robe Dorothy held aloft for him and then prowled out to meet with the woman he was beginning to despise.

"I came to see how you were doing."

"I'll start breakfast," Norman says, moving towards the kitchen as soon as he sees Roger emerge, satisfied he can protect his belongings in any mood, and aware that his crossness at being woken earlier than Dorothy's piano playing would bolster his wit to evade the woman's tactics at information requisitioning.

There is silence between the two for a moment, then Dorothy exits the bedroom with a small basket of dirty clothing and moves to one of the rooms towards the back of the long hall.

"I'm obviously doing all right, no funeral notices were posted," he says dryly, moving across the room to the windows at the far end, those looking out over the bay side of the city.

"No, Roger, I meant… about…"

"I don't want to discuss this with you," Roger replies evenly, seeking out the couch in the parlor where the piano sits forlorn and almost forgotten. He looks at the ebony instrument and imagines Dorothy seated there playing and it lifts his spirits. "Since I am almost fully recovered I will be returning to my work soon, if that is your underlying reason for coming this morning. But it shouldn't be because you obviously can tell I am not a very good morning person."

Dorothy returns to the area with a few hangers of clothing and reenters the bedroom.

"Who is that?" Angel inquires, attempting polite conversation to cover her fear at the sight of the girl who looked so much like the crazed and homicidal R*D that she found herself frightened for the first time in many long years. She hadn't been afraid of anything… then R*D had, and this young lady she was only catching glimpses of appeared, in her eyes, to resemble the other.

"None of your concern at this time." Roger turns to look out the window, smoothing back his hair with his right hand ineffectually. "Now please either explain your purpose here this morning or leave me to my breakfast."

Dorothy emerges from the room again and pauses. "Shall I play the piano this morning, Roger?"

He nods stiffly, thankful for that much of the routine salvaged, at least. She crosses the room between the two of them and takes her seat at the piano, caringly brushing the dust from the cover of the keyboard before moving it out of the way and setting her fingers on the keys. Her mind finally made up after the quarter-hour in which had passed since she was last seated in front of the ebony masterpiece.

Angel takes a step further into the room as the first bars of music leave the piano in a forlorn improvisation on 'The Kiss,' a song from an old movie she had heard while passing a shop downtown with Perot previously. It had been a brief burst of the Morgan Creek song, but her ears had identified and acquired the rest of the song easily, and she found it an appealing song in tense situations. Roger never asked the name, and if he had, she might have lied to save face for the both of them. Dorothy closes her eyes and allows her arms to move her upper body with the flow of the music. The tune moves slowly from her fingertips to the air about them with practiced ease and a grace only her unerring skills, wrought by both Instro's tutelage and her own mechanical perfection could only produce.

Roger relaxes on the couch a bit and Angel freezes as she takes in the scene before her. The girl at the piano striking a chord within her memory, "Red…" she begins, but then stops and looks at the young woman at the piano, obviously an accomplished pianist, and yet so familiar. Similar down to the smallest degree, but something seemed different about this young woman. She appeared more… alive…

'Is this the blueprint or the prototype?' Angel puzzles in her head. 'She certainly appears harmless, so small and frail looking. Her skin does not appear that it has seen the sun much. But so did that of Red Destiny. I hope Roger is not so foolish as to trust that she is not…'

"Do you have nothing to say at all, Miss Angel?" the young lady asks quietly as she continues to play. "You seem at a loss for words. Is it something I have done to offend you?"

"No, of course not…" she barely catches herself before calling the young lady Red Destiny. 'Now what was her name again…?'

Roger murmurs something sleepily and Angel's eyes narrow dangerously. 'Why is he responding to this… music so emotionally? And what does this girl have to do with him? She was never even mentioned when I spoke with him before.' She balls her fist at her side and sees the girl eyes move and notice it. 'She is perceptive. Perhaps this is who he hinted of so fondly.'

Her mind goes blank as her eyes bore into his more laconic ones. His body relaxes the more she remains standing in the room with the girl at the piano playing softly. Neither woman offer any more words but Roger can see the gears of her memory turning, bringing back his words before to try and place this girl in his life. He allows a little of his smirk onto his lips and motions her to the empty space at the other end of the small divan.

"If you cannot speak and you will not go, please sit down, Miss Angel." His eyes linger on Dorothy as she sways her head in time with her fingers. As the piece draws to a close he hears Angel whisper tightly, "Child molestation is against the law, Negotiator."

Eyes still trained on Dorothy's body, he sees her stiffen and begin another tune.

"Ah, yes," he replies. "But it isn't that sort of a relationship, Miss Angel, she is a client of mine."

He hears the angry snort from her end of the couch as he continues to watch Dorothy play the jazzy tune. "Some client."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous, Miss Angel," he chides. "It might be flattering if either of us cared about each other in a more than business-like manner, but under the circumstances I am inclined to believe you mean some barb to the young lady rather than any playful teasing to myself."

"I merely state the facts, Mr. Smith."

"A virtue."

"Until you step on the wrong person's toes," she counters. 'Why do I feel so inclined to fight him? Who is she? Why do I feel so threatened? I don't feel anything for Roger. He is the negotiator. I am only a potential client that seems to end up around him more than normal. Nothing more.'

"You didn't seem to think that when we were trapped under so much water, Mr. Smith."

Dorothy's eyes steal a glance at the two of them, satisfied at the space between them. Angel catches that look as well. 'If that's so…'

'Then why am I jealous of her?'

'Is it even jealousy? Or is it fear?'

"Breakfast is served, sir."

"Thank you Norman," Roger stands. "Would you care to join us, Miss Angel?"

The red haired young woman stops playing the piano as she brings the piece to a quick close, and stands as well. Angel nods, dumbstruck. "Certainly, what is…?" The other two start moving in the direction of the elevator. Angel stands and follows quickly. 'So this is a day in the life of Roger Smith,' she thinks. 'If there is any chance for this stupid feeling in my heart, it'll be confirmed or denied quick enough.'

The table is a large, moderately wide slab of oak… or maybe chestnut suspended at a level comfortable for the young woman and, at the same time, Roger himself. 'Interesting design. I'll have to copy it.' She stares in wonder a moment and then the young woman speaks up, "Shall I take my usual seat?" her voice is even.

"No, it is customary to honor guests, you can sit down here next to me."

"Yes, Roger." 

'Her voice is so subservient it makes me sick,' Angel thinks as Norman shows her to her seat at the opposite end of the table. 'She is so impartial that she seems bored with all this. I wonder how long she has been staying here.'

The plates are brought out and Angel notices that the girl barely has anything on her plate. Roger inquires after this as well, but the redhead merely says, "I ate when I woke up this morning."

"When was that?" Angel asks.

"Four," she replies simply, taking a long sip of her tea. Perhaps it was coffee.

Staring down at the two of them, and seeing Roger watching the other young lady despite the direction of his gaze towards herself made up Angel's mind for her. Roger Smith was the wrong man for her. Too frigid, and far too disarming.

She would do all she could to have him.


	6. Interlude - Different Kind of Style

Act Fourteen – Interlude: Different Kind of Style

Act Fourteen – Interlude: Different Kind of Style

**AN: As you can see, I was pretty busy during ff.net's down time… I'm already pretty far into part 8, and since I was planning on uploading through part 7, which is Scene 3, I'll do it all now. I added my website to my bio, and it's got all the stuff I've got done under the 'fanfiction' section… (yeah I know that was a really shameless plug but hey) Anyway I'm off to continue uploading and writing!**

** **

'I still hadn't the nerve to ask him about the coat. It has been missing since when I met him in that tunnel when Big O moved by itself to aid him. I understand why… whatever was happening to Roger was sending shocks through the power system in the area, shorting the communicator to only the smallest spider's web line of a signal… he was in trouble, so the logical thing to do would be to follow the thread back to its course. Machines rely on logic… not emotion… or at least we are supposed to.'

"If you are, indeed, going to return to work, Roger, what will you wear?"

He seemed surprised at her question. "What do you mean?"

"Your jacket is still missing. Your coat is fine, but your jacket is nowhere to be found."

"Oh," he simply said.

"You have other jackets, but…"

"No other jacket will do," he responded in kind, back to his gruff tone for the first time since his mind and body had flooded with relief at seeing her leaning out of Big O's cockpit.

"What can we do about it, Roger?" her voice only held the slightest hint of her pleasant relief. "You never go out in anything else."

"I do too!" he slammed his palm onto the table.

"Roger…"

He glowered. Norman had retired to the repair bay below ground, yet again, to continue the repairs on Big O, which were substantial. The butler had finally managed to peel the last of the useless charred armor from the hulking black robot, only to begin mending it slowly.

While the thought of a battle without Big O dismayed Dorothy in the manner of Roger's health being at risk, she thought no more about it. Roger, on the other hand, suddenly felt himself trapped in the web of responsibility he'd stepped into long before he even considered the city important to him. Suddenly the importance of the city had begun to slip away, and that of its citizens had grown. But gradually, and the beginning of that decline had carried a face now precious.

And even that he did not understand. How could the unfeeling, granted recently she had been more compassionate and genuinely caring at times, android mean anything to him? She wasn't a pleasant person to be around, her skin pale, hair monotonously kept day to day, and her body… it wasn't even real! The playboy did not fall for the young lady that couldn't…

But, during times like this, when she stares at him coldly or ignored him, he just knows that it wouldn't be like that with her.

Shaking off his deeper thoughts, Roger stands and moves towards his closet. He had eaten breakfast in his robe, since he had deemed it too early to bother with that, which actually rested at the bottom of his list of rules, and the major one when Angel was near had long since changed from 'charm her,' to 'harm her,' and though he didn't act upon that desire, he needn't leap through hoops for his enemy.

While stripping off the robe and then his tee shirt, he forgets that Dorothy was in the room. She catches herself staring at him and quickly turns her back, looking at the far wall. If she had possessed, at that moment, the capability to blush, she would have. Her own body was all she knew when it came to the human form, and Roger's was significantly… different enough to make her just a little conscious of what humans would call the 'modesty' they normally maintained between them.

It was not until he began tightening the belt around his waist that the realization dawned on him.

"I'm sorry, Dorothy."

"I am used to it," she said, voice barely above a whisper and yet still monotone.

"No, not this, and you shouldn't have to be. Perhaps I really am a louse."

With her back to him she could allow herself to smile, and so she did.

Ten minutes later finds them climbing into the Griffon, dressed to impress. Dorothy had admitted to herself that she accepted his apology when she turned around at last and saw him. His outfit had caused her to pause. While the Negotiator obviously had either a love of or a fetish with black, he normally wore a crisp white shirt to offset the look of darkness he carried with him and gave him an air of professionalism.

The black turtleneck under the dark brown jacket made him luck almost thug-like and unyielding. He still wore his gloves, but they only lent themselves to further aide his ensemble in the look of rigid personality. Dorothy, on the other hand, continued to look indifferent and merely sat across the car without saying a word.

The Griffon left the garage quietly, its occupants as silent as stone, and headed towards the downtown area, and a certain tailor.


	7. Scene 3 - Tailored

Act Fourteen – Scene 3: Tailored

Act Fourteen – Scene 3: Tailored

_'That young lady was the first person to ever affect any change in my behavior, other than Roger or Norman. She was the first person that made me want to be happy, without giving me anything. Roger at times makes me want to smile, but I feel that if I smile at Roger, something will go wrong, something that is suspended in our relationship will crash down or break. I do not feel that I should smile at Roger, the potential for misadventure in that action is too much. The feeling of joy her actions caused me to realize just how much I do feel.'_

Since that man took Roger towards the back of the store, I've been sitting here, waiting. Roger's brown jacket lies across my lap, and my hands are folded on top of it. There are only a few other people in the store, so I am staring at my hands. They are fascinating, in some basic way.

I hear a salesclerk make a noise and turn my attention to her.

"What is it?"

"Is there anything I can help you with, Miss?"

"I am waiting for someone."

"Oh," she starts to turn away.

I consider.

Tedious work, stand up. Hold still. Arms this way, chest out, arms that way… even Dorothy must be more amused than I am right now. I wonder if she's all right out there. I probably shouldn't have left her out there like that. She's bound to be bored…

Bored?

An android?

I must be loosing it.

"All black?"

"Yes. It must be in black."

"Couldn't you even… wear a white shirt?"

That gives me pause. "Yes, that is acceptable. Everything else must be black."

Single-minded concentration. If a human is to understand the stipulations of 'all black' I must be persistent. Getting Roger's tie for Heaven's Day was hard enough; an entire outfit will be slightly harder.

"What sort of style are you looking for?" she asks. "We have beautiful sundresses."

"Something that looks professional."

She seems to consider before leading me towards the west end of the store. She pulls out a hanger. "How is this?" Dorothy inspects the garment, running her synthetic fingers over the material of first the vest, and then the skirt.

"Do you have a different skirt? This one is too tight."

"Oh, one moment." I wait patiently.

The outfit comes with a sleek jacket and a white-sleeved shirt to wear underneath the vest. She returns with another hanger, which holds a looser skirt. This outfit will look different on me than what I've worn before, possibly more grown up. I wonder what Roger will say when he sees me in it.

"How is this?"

"Perfect," I reply.

Why am I bothering to buy clothing? The outfit I have is sufficient. That Angel woman dresses like this. I do not want to be her, but the way Roger looks at her… perhaps a little change will do me some good. "What size is it in?"

"This one is in a size five."

"Oh, I wear a size three."

She motions me after her towards a small island service center. I follow, Roger's coat still over my arm. "Let me check."

I stand patiently waiting. She has the hangers with her on the desk near some papers that detail the inventory of clothing and sizes. I hear Roger grumbling about something in his fitting room, but chose to ignore it in order to see if I can get this new outfit. I want to.

"We should have that size… but I didn't see it on the rack."

"If it is an inconvenience…"

"If you'd like to order it, Miss, we can have it in by Thursday." I contemplate.

"The gentleman I entered the store with is being fitted for a new coat. Could the two items be picked up at the same time?"

"Yes, Henri should have the jacket done by then, as well."

"Then I will take this outfit."

"All right," her voice is pleasant. I wish my voice was that pleasant, but I have nothing to be pleasant about. Or at least I didn't, before.

She begins to fill out several cards, outlining the size and the model and color of each piece. "So you'll want the white shirt? It comes in black…"

"The white one will do fine, thank you," and there it is, the pleasant tone, I have achieved it in my own voice. I feel… joyful…

"Ok, and the a-line skirt…" she mutters while filling out the forms. She reaches the final page… the bill, and looks up at me. "How will you be paying?"

I retrieve the card Norman had made for me, a 'credit card' that I was instructed by Roger to use for any purchases I would need to make. I fish it out of the pocket in my skirt and hand it to her.

She punches in a few numbers and I hear Roger leave the room and come up to the island with his own garment's card. She hands me back my 'credit card' and I put it back in my pocket.

He comes up behind me and makes a little cough, as though trying not to startle me. "Are you finally ready, Roger?" I ask, stepping aside and allowing him access to the counter.

"Yes, the proper model has been chosen, and the measurements have been taken. What were you up to while I was being taped?"

"Being taped?"

He raises his brows at that question, having forgotten I know little of this slang he uses sometimes.

"Uh…" I offer him his coat before turning and receiving the pick-up slips.

"You can pick it up on Thursday," the woman smiles at me kindly and winks.

"Thank you," I reply with a similar movement of my eye. I am glad she did not say anything to Roger about this. I like her. "I will do so."

He takes the coat from my arm and nods to the young woman, who seems to recognize him, but the only change in her expression is a slight widening of her eyes. She is very nice. Roger looks like he wishes to remain and talk to her, so I begin my way out of the store.

"Dorothy!" he comes chasing after me.

"Yes, Roger Smith?"

When did she start calling me that, again? "Why'd you start off like that? I didn't even have my coat on," she is staring straight ahead as she steps onto the escalator.

"You appeared to want to speak with her in private, Roger, so I was giving you some privacy."

Sure, you probably heard me when I was in the fitting room. "Dorothy, I…"

She tightens the belt around her waist and continues moving forward. It is poetry to watch her move. I take the few steps down to stand next to her. "You what, Roger?" her voice sounds… different.

Pleased, almost.

"I'm sorry I left you alone like that."

"It is all right, Roger," and… she means it.


	8. Interlude - Misinterpreted Signals

14 - Interlude: Misinterpreted Signals 

Act Fourteen - Interlude: Misinterpreted Signals

It's the oddest thing in the world. I've never felt anything but camaraderie towards Dorothy, and even that's stretched thin sometimes, and yet suddenly… I feel almost as though there's something else there. Something that I'm denying, that I'm ignoring.

I never ignore things.

I can't.

When I ignore things I fail my missions.

We're sitting in the car. He's staring fixedly at the road, and there is nothing but silence between us. I wonder what has happened, what has changed.

I picked up his coat from the tailor's and my new outfit this morning. I plan to wear it to dinner this evening. We probably won't get back from this investigation until rather late.

I wonder what he's thinking about… what's wrong. He seems all right, but then Roger rarely ever seems otherwise. He puts up a tall wall between himself and the world that I can't seem to get past. I know he's more than what impression he gives off, but I can't seem to get around that wall. He's hiding behind it, using it as a shield.

It's almost as though he's afraid to let me in… for fear of what I might see.

Or what I might find out.

I simply don't understand what he finds so necessary to hide from me.

After all, I'm just an android, aren't I?

I will wear the outfit some other time. I don't think now is the right moment to spring any changes on Roger. It might send him further into this shell he's erected for himself.


	9. Scene 4 - Disturbing Behavior

Act Fourteen - Scene 4: Disturbing Behavior

_ 'Since she came to stay with us at the house I had wanted only one thing from her. Silence, peace and quiet perhaps. The android, girl, whatever she is, her questions unnerved me, and yet her silence made me even worse! So for months I wanted nothing more than to be alone… and then she started haunting my dreams. But when I finally got what I wanted…ironically, if not justly, it wasn't what I truly wanted.'_

She closed herself up in her room earlier, and still hasn't come out. She set the box with my new jacket in it on the divan in my room, and then retreated to her own. It has only been a few days since I heard the lightness in her voice for the first time. I wonder… could it be related at all with her actions since returning from the tailor's? Did she meet someone there that she likes?

Why am I so paranoid? Dorothy has to stay here.

For now, at least…

But what happens when her tenure is up? How much longer do I have with her here? Why am I so dismayed about the prospect of her leaving? Sure she changed the dead house with her presence, but would not any woman? She's sullen and withdrawn…

And beautiful.

Slowly, his thoughts return to his surroundings as he stares out off the terrace edge from a safe distance behind the railing. The chill wind nips at his cheeks and pulls on the edges of the robe he wears over his usual attire of a white shirt and his black dress pants.

Perhaps I always felt this way. She is daring, fearless. I try out her attitudes from time to time. I sit higher from the ground than normal, lie down on the cool stone until I feel its chill in the pores of my skin… but I can't be her. I can't be so fearless; it is careless of a human to emulate the courage of an android. The android is made of more durable stuff than the human, and can be more readily repaired.

But it is against one of my rules to cower in fear.

I haven't been of much use to anyone while plagued by these nightmares.

"Roger." Her voice comes from behind me. I did not even hear her come out.

I turn to look at her. "Dorothy," the word, the name is familiar on my lips, feels comforting and nice. She comes closer with a small tray in her hands, a cup on a saucer steaming up from the glinting metal. "How did you know I'd want…?"

"It is cold out, Roger, should you not wear more than just that thin robe?" her voice is restrained, not so much a monotone, but the voice of someone who is showing their cold outer shell, holding all emotion within.

She must care about my health.

Or perhaps it is just that she doesn't wish to have to care for Roger the Invalid anymore.

"Probably."

"Norman should have dinner ready within the next ten minutes, Roger, are you going to have dinner tonight?" her voice is empty again, uncaring.

"Yes. I will take dinner tonight." She seems satisfied and places the tray on the ground, moving past me to stand at her normal perch on the stone embankments. "Why did you close yourself off in your room this afternoon?"

"I did not close myself off in the room, Roger, you could have come in."

She has a point there.

"What were you doing in there?"

"Nothing important."

"Why, Miss Waynewright, I believe you are evading the question." She looks defensively at me. "But since I value your privacy, I will not bother you about it." Now there is bewilderment there, in those eyes. Her brow furrows.

The expression is plain, raw, on her face. 'I expected you to push,' it says. She just stares at me for a long moment, unspeaking, and I sip the tea some more. I don't know why I don't drink too much coffee now. Tea just seems more… soothing.

I never used to drink tea. Before she showed up it was all coffee. Norman's voice echoes out to us, "Dinner is served, sir."

Dorothy hops down and moves towards the tray. I follow her as she enters the house once more. "What did people use that patio for, Roger? It's too high to function really."

"I suppose they took sun out there, Dorothy."

"Sun?"

"Yes."

"Why would anyone want to take sun? It's warm and burns your skin."

"How do you know that about the sun? Have you ever seen it?" my voice is questing, not accusing. She stops and I almost run into her.

"I do not know," the words are quick, and then she enters the house.

A mysterious beauty, you are, Dorothy.

Dinner seems to take hours. She sits there, stationary, only occasionally sipping tea. Norman hovers near my right elbow, waiting to find some way to serve me. "A little more wine, please, Norman."

He seems pleased with that.

"You're going to be drunk at this rate, Roger."

Her voice stops me with the glass at my lips. "What's wrong with that?"

"You haven't gotten drunk at all in the time I've been here, Roger Smith." Norman nods, thoughtfully. "You have a point Miss Dorothy. Master Roger hasn't."

The doorbell rings.

"I'll answer it," Norman says, voice already faint with his distance from the table growing. I continue to eat.

"I wonder who it could be, don't you, Roger?"

"Either a potential client, or…"

"Angel," Dorothy's voice is low, dangerously low.

"Dorothy, don't you like Miss Angel?"

She meets my eyes briefly before looking down into her teacup.

"Ah. Why not?"

She opens her mouth when Norman returns, an envelope on a small tray, which he brings to me directly. "Anything else, sir?"

"Not right now, thanks Norman."

"I'll go work on Big O, then, sir." He completes a half bow and turns on his heel.

Her comment interrupted, she takes a sip of her tea. "What is in the letter?"

I know she doesn't really want to know. "I'll open it tomorrow. Now… why do you dislike Miss Angel?" She sets her teacup down.

"She is very underhanded."

"I can be the same from time to time."

"She is _always_ underhanded and double dealing, Roger, you only do that some of the time." She stirs her tea carefully.

"That sounds like your morals conflict with hers."

"Morals?"

"You apparently don't believe in cloak and dagger tactics."

She looks at me in pointed confusion so I continue.

"Cloak and dagger is an expression used to indicate someone who does their dealings in the darkness. The darkness symbolizing…"

"Slight of hand."

"Not… exactly," she looks back down at her teacup, "but I think you get the picture." She takes another sip. "Dorothy, why do you drink tea? Don't you just have to…?"

"That function is relatively the same as a human, yes."

"Can you even taste it?"

"To a degree, yes."

"To what degree?"

"I sense that it is a compound of herbal extracts and saccharine-type sugars. It is rather warm, and feels good against my throat."

"'_Feels good_'?"

"Even I find certain stimuli enjoyable, Roger. While I could never taste the food I might eat, the action of eating is, in itself, pleasantly normal. Drinking tea is becoming a habit since the reactions of my sensors cause certain feelings. I like drinking tea because I feel the tea, if that makes any sense to you."

"Thank you for explaining that to me." I do believe you are more than just a robot, Dorothy. "I have a question, then."

"Shoot," she says in a bit of slang.

"What do you feel when you think of love?"

That is possibly the one question I was not prepared for. I pause in sipping my tea and look into his eyes. No jest or barb this time, a simple question. "Longing."

He makes a noise akin to 'hmm.' "Is that all?"

"Curiosity and confusion. I wonder what it is like."

He takes another bite of his steak.

"Why do you ask?"

"Just remembering…"

"Beck," I respond. He nods offhandedly. "I said that I loved you. Is that it?"

His face slips into a mask of cold concentration. "Yes."

"You want to know if it is true?"

He does not respond.

"I asked you afterwards a difficult question."

"Yes," he says simply, but in that one word I can hear the complexity of his thoughts.

"Am I still just a machine to you, Roger?"

His eyes cloud over for a moment and he shakes his head. I am trapping him. I tempt the fates as I walk towards the wounded, cornered tiger. But I trust this tiger. "Am I capable of feelings in your eyes, Roger? More than simple sensations… emotions?"

He nods, slower this time, as though making up his own mind.

That makes me feel happy, even though that delicate thing seems to be precariously maintained, at best. It is as though the thing, or whatever it is, totters at the edge of a drop, and only teeters backwards by sheer chance. I wish I could examine that thing. But I fear that if I take it in my hands I will break it.

I cannot be very gentle. I do not know how.

What does all of this mean? She is standing straight in the gale again, beating back the winds buffeting her with observations and logic. Can she love? How does that set in with her programmed logic? Can it be that she feels that way towards me, as she said she did? She was under Beck's control at the time… in a way, but he said something about memory chips. Her memory chips should have been changed and it would have… what? Corrected the situation? Drawn her attention from me?

The pen only enhanced the thoughts she had, not created them. Could it be, then, that she does believe she feels love for me? Certainly… and yet that statement and my mindset are both crumbling under the weight of her actions, it should not be this way. Should it?

I care for her, which is obvious by my constant attentiveness to her whereabouts. I missed her for the few days before the fight with the three mega deuces. My dreams kept me haunted, I couldn't even think straight, and…

She didn't wake me from them, then. She wasn't aware that I needed help, then.

"Are you finished?" she asks softly.

"Yes," I say, putting my elbows on the table and resting my face against my hands. I hear her movements as she collects the dishes and heads into the kitchen to wash them. "Dorothy…"

"Yes Roger?" she calls back at me.

I stand and move after her.

"Let me help you with that."


	10. Scene 5 - Lady Luck

**Act Fourteen - Scene 5: Lady Luck**

_ 'This new case… I hope it gets the two of us from the house enough to forget this mess with Angel. If only I understood the reasons behind her actions. They appear so empty, and yet… that woman does not do things without some meaning, no matter whose logic is on the line. It cannot, then, be simple jealousy…"_

Seated in the drawing room with my newest client I absently hear the doorbell, and also Dorothy's footsteps as she intercepts the illicit entrant in the hall.

"So you want me to negotiate what, Mister Dorland?"

"The successful recollection of the Tarot Set, Mr. Smith. These figurines are very important to me, and when they were stolen from the museum I was very grieved."

"What makes these statuettes so important, Mr. Dorland?"

He appears uncomfortable. "I bought them for my daughter, who enjoys such things, Mister Smith. It would break her heart to find them irrecoverable, and if it breaks her heart… She is the only person I have left in this world, Mr. Smith, and I have only recently come to know her, as a father should his child. The figures were to be her twenty-first birthday present, and I would very much like to keep the promise I made to her." He pauses to take a photograph from his pocket.

I take the picture and look at it. A young woman with tanned skin stares at me, dark eyes over a serious expression. Around her neck is a medallion in silver, resting midway between her neck and shirt, a white tank top with paint stains.

"Your daughter looks very much like you, Mr. Dorland," I murmur. Her hair is pulled back from her face, except for a few strands, in a braid that falls over one shoulder carelessly.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith."

"She seems very serious, for a painter," I hand the photograph back to him.

"Due to my own errors, my daughter did not have the childhood I wanted for her. She has endured a life outside the domes that even I cannot imagine until two years ago when I finally managed to recover…" he talks about his limited knowledge in the field of computers for a moment and I perk my ear to try and hear who is speaking with Dorothy in the front hall.

"So will you take the case?"

"That I will, Mister Dorland. How long do I have?"

"One week and two days, Mister Smith."

"Where can I contact you?" I ask, taking a small pad from my pocket. He recites a phone number. "Is there any way that I could talk to your daughter, Mister Dorland?"

"Why would you need to do that?"

"Your daughter knows quite a bit about the Tarot, doesn't she?" The man nods. "Perhaps she can give me a little insight into the importance of these figurines, and possibly a lead."

He nods warily and recites another number.

I write it down, and then hear a little scuffle in the hall.

"If that's all the information you have for me, Mister Dorland, allow me one question." We rise, he nods, "What is your daughter's name?"

"Hope Dorland."

I smile at him and head towards the door in front of him. Dorothy hears my footsteps and ends the scuffle, ducking into the room across from this one; she pushes the person into the den with her.

Mr. Dorland leaves with an anguished smile and I reassure him that I am on the case before I return to find Dorothy seated lady-like on Angel's chest. Angel is staring angrily at Dorothy, her blond hair is messed up and her face holds a red mark and a few scratches. Dorothy has a deep line down her left cheek.

"She had a knife, maybe more than one," Dorothy cautions me as she continues to pin the woman to the floor, her knees braced on her forearms.

"Get this hunk of tin off me!"

I smile bemusedly for a moment. "Are you otherwise armed?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to harm anyone else?"

"No," her own eyes change.

"Or Dorothy again?"

She scowls. "No."

Dorothy climbs off of her nimbly. Angel waits for me to offer her a hand up, and then angrily gets to her feet. "Why are you here?" I ask politely, looking at Dorothy for any signs of instability.

"I told you, I need you to negotiate…"

"And I told you no."

"You didn't even listen to what I had to say."

"It's for Paradigm, or at the very least, it's for your mysterious employer, who I'm beginning to think is only Rosewater, which means that I want no part in it."

"Roger," she rarely uses my first name. She's either trying to be alluring or pitiful. "Roger, please, I don't want to see anything happen to you. Take this job."

"Even if, and you can understand the improbability of that statement, if I wanted to, I can't right now. I've already got a case." Dorothy's hand is holding her cheek. "Now leave before I throw you out, Angel." I cross my arms on my chest.

"Roger…"

"I repeat my last intent, Angel. I hate to do it, but you…"

"Aw, did I damage Roger's little robot?"

Dorothy stares blankly forward but I can see the depth of that cut.

"Norman!"

I hear her make an angered snort and move off. "Perhaps it was unwise to do that, Roger."

"Dorothy… she sliced you so bad you're sparking."

"I'll live, Roger. She has a point. Your well-being does depend, in some manner, on Alex Rosewater's goodwill."

"His goodwill never got anyone anything but a shallow grave," I spit out. "Now come on down to the workshop and I'll get Norman to repair this gash."

"It isn't that bad."

"That wasn't a request."


	11. Scene 6 - Unconditional Refusal

**Act Fourteen - Scene 6: Unconditional Refusal**

_ 'It should have meant more to Roger than it did when I pulled the knife on the android. I knew I had no chance to win against her. Weapon or no, the thing eventually would have beaten me. I really hated doing it too, and the look in her eyes as she pulled her hand from the opening… she looked so much like R*D that I nearly ran from the house that single instant. She hit me so hard I blacked out, and when I came to she was seated on my chest. Alex doesn't give up that easily, but perhaps he doesn't know what he's up against. I've tried to explain to him what's going on, but he, like Roger, will not listen. Both the savior and the destructor locked in strongholds against all rhyme and reason for different reasons, and when the two of them come together I think it will be the android and I who will suffer the most.'_

"I see."

"Mister Rosewater, I think that…"

"No one is asking your opinion, Patricia."

The room is dark. We are standing on the catwalk above where his engineers are working on Big Duo, I believe the Deuce's name is. To think that the second arm is attached and fully functional again is both baffling and unsettling. He meant it when he said that in three months' time he'd have the world at his feet. Even he can't perform some miracles, however. It took a month to get to this stage.

So if he's pushing everyone too hard, it is expected. Alex Rosewater is nobody's fool. Nobody's fool but his own. And he is wearing these people down. Soon they will each come to their breaking points.

Not everyone manages at that stage as well as I do.

It is a strong person that can walk the razor's edge. That is why I admire Roger so.

"All that matters now is the completion of our goals."

So now I have the same goals as you? Interesting thought. Wrong thought, but it is still interesting. That I could have the same goals as the one who wishes destruction upon humanity… what a joke. Pathetic and cruel is the fate he wishes the world. He believes I want to remain in a world like that. If he truly believes it, then he must be crazier than I imagined.

"What of the girl you told me is staying with the Negotiator?"

"An android. R. Dorothy Waynewright."

"I see…" his voice implies otherwise. "Is she…?"

"No, she is not R*D. I can verify this by the fact that I am still alive."

"What happened?" his eyes are still trained on the workers below us.

"We got into a fight."

He stiffens a moment and turns his head to the side to regard me from the corner of his eye. "You fought an android?"

"I was trying to get in to see him. She wouldn't let me."

"Didn't the pen work?"

"Some component was missing… and even if it wasn't, I have a feeling that it wouldn't work on her anyway." He chuckles.

"So now you're having 'feelings' about a machine as well?"

"Mister Rosewater, I…"

"There isn't anyone here but the two of us, Angel, you can call me by my first name."

I bite my tongue. "Alex, I don't have 'feelings' for the girl, I just… know that it won't work. Even Beck didn't do very well. Surely she has both safeguards and new memory chips since then."

He makes an inarticulate noise. Roger is so much friendlier towards me, even when he throws me out, in his incommunicativeness. A wonder I haven't left Alex already. The time is fast approaching when I will go, so I must be patient.

Just a little longer and this loyalty will pay off.

All I have to do is stomach him in the meanwhile.

"I trust your intuitiveness, Angel. You are uninjured?"

"Better off than she."

"How so?" I hold up the knife. "What did you do to her?"

"She was trying to stop me, Alex. I was only following your directive. She came at me defensively, so I fought her."

"That would explain the scratches on you face and neck."

"Those were from when I tried to escape. She knocked me out after I cut her face."

He smiles, bemusedly, and so I move forward to stand next to him.

"Clever girl," he says to me. "That was a good move. Keep the Negotiator from suspecting."

He already suspects. The man is not as isolated as that, Alex. "Perhaps he already does."

"Improbable. He has been holed up in that mansion of his for the past month. He hasn't left it."

"There are these things called telephones, Alex."

"Don't you patronize me, Angel. I know that. He hasn't made any calls except to the Tailor's downtown." He puts one hand to the railing in front of us, leaning on it a little bit. "And I had that checked out already. He bought a new coat."

"He must be awfully interesting if you're spending this much energy one him, Alex."

"He is a necessary evil."

No, he is a necessary good. You are the evil, and the unnecessary evil at that. You do not know when or what to do at the proper times. I was taught strategy, Alex. I still have my heart, my body, most of my powers… you are old and lame. The horse awaiting the glue factory.

But it will only be a little longer.

I will get back all that I have lost, Alex, at your expense, if I can only abide you a little longer.

It shouldn't be too hard. I have waited this long.

And after all, he is family, and the only bit of it that I've got.


	12. Scene 7 - Mind Games

**Act Fourteen - Scene 7: Mind Games**

_'It is amazing how fickle human beings really are. Roger rarely asks me anything, and it is almost never about a case, yet he broke that conviction and asked me to come along with him this time. For once, I feel wanted.'_

Roger's first case since the incident had arrived earlier that day. He was dressing, looking himself over in the mirror and prowling, practicing swinging his newly healed arm and looking his impeccably boring business front that eluded calmness and familiarity to the people of Paradigm City when I entered the room.

He stops in his tracks. I pause to look at him on my way to the closet with some of his clean clothes hanging on hangers suspended over my shoulder.

He turns away, not as quickly as before, and that fact alone caused some elation within me. "Aren't you going to get ready?" he asks me in his formal 'do this for me whether you want to or not,' voice and I hang the clothes carefully in order.

"Get ready?"

"I thought you would be accompanying me on this trip," he says, buttoning up the cuffs of his white shirt to busy his hands and draw his eyes away from mine in the mirror as I straighten his closet.

"Would you like me to?" I pause, and wait for his response.

He hesitates a step between fear of showing weakness, a sad turn of events for I never will see him that way and if I could it would not be at this time, and some unidentifiable emotion I first noticed when he took my hand after his nightmares several days ago and urged me to stay flashes across his face as he looks up. I believe now he realizes what I meant to do that evening, and is extra cautious around me because of it.

"It's not entirely necessary."

My heart sinks, if I do have one, and I can feel my expression changing.

"But I would like you to come along anyway."

One ritual broken.

I never ask her to come along unless it is something that will be dangerous enough that I feel the necessity of her presence to protect my objective or myself. I've never brought her along just because she is herself. But then I never saw her as anything more than an android before either.

"So…?" I ask, hopeful that my voice doesn't sound as desperate as I think it does.

"I will accompany you, Roger." Her voice is still devoid of emotion, but I can see it in her eyes… she is pleased that I asked her to come.

I look into the mirror again and straighten my tie.

"Are you not yet ready?"

I look over and see that she has finished with hanging up the clothes and is staring at me. "Shouldn't you… change?" I reply.

I look down at my clothes and nod slowly before turning and leaving the room. As I get to my own I strip off the apron in disgust. Whatever possessed me to wear the thing I do not know. I toss it to the bed and begin to roll down my sleeves. I only rolled them up because I was doing laundry. I bleach his white shirts; it is one of the rules. I don't think Roger minds white. He wears a white shirt every day underneath all that black.

As for me… I try to follow his rules, but I could not find a dress that I liked in all black… one that was modest enough for me to wear around the house and clean in, or else it was dark purple. As it is I ended up with black only slightly rust tinged. I believe this dress is older than it looks. I would much rather wear something else. I have another outfit that I have been meaning to try out in front of him… but the idea of defying his wishes keeps me timidly in my matronly outfit.

Oh well, I can admire it myself. Perhaps I will wear it to dinner sometime so that he can grow accustomed to it before I leave the house in it. I straighten my skirt and notice that the hem is wearing.

Once too many times being yanked in the wind I suppose. I'll fix it when we return.

Roger looks pleased as I enter the room with the coat he gave me over one arm. I am glad. His small smile is a nice reward. If he would smile at me like that again I would wear it every day… but now it is time to go.

She must notice the look on my face. I can't wipe the small smile off of my lips fast enough for it to escape her notice. Her eyes are very sharp and it oftentimes gives her face a look of concentration when she first enters a room. Stunning.

"It shouldn't take too long, Norman."

"I'll have your dinner prepared at the usual time, then, sir."

"All right." Norman turns to go about the business of the house, leaving the two of us alone as we step into the elevator. I slip my arms into my coat and prepare to leave the elevator. She stands still.

"Dorothy… I…"

She looks up at me with innocent curiosity.

"I'm sorry for the way I've been treating you lately."

I turn my eyes forward, expecting an indolent retort, but she does not respond other than a quiet, "I forgive you." That is puzzling. She has more spirit than that, usually.

"And I keep having…"

"Your nightmares are personal. I do not wish to pry in something that you wish private. I apologize for meddling in your affairs."

I turn and find that now she is the one staring through the wall in front of us.

I reach over and touch her hand. She turns her head towards me.

"Thank you for saving me from them," I say and the doors open before us. For a long moment we simply stand there, and then I reach forward and open the door. "After you," I say and she steals a look at me from the corner of her eye before moving forward.

Smiling I move forward.

She pauses at the door to put on her coat. She gets her left arm in, and then fumbles with the other sleeve, and I take the opportunity to see how much she's grown towards acting human. Then the gentleman in me gets the better of the part that enjoys seeing her less than perfect and I step forward, my hand holding the offending sleeve still for her arm.

"Thank you," she murmurs as I pull it up over her shoulders gently. It fits nicely. Nicer than I thought it would. "You're welcome," I reply, stepping forward and exiting into the garage.

Sliding down into my seat behind the wheel of the Griffon that is a normal sight on the streets of Paradigm City, I contemplate her figure as she settles into the seat on her side without much movement other than to place her hands in her lap.

The car favors her side lightly, but that is understandable. She does bear the weight of almost one and a half times her size of metal inside her. I wonder what it feels like to be her. As usual, wondering about her opens the floodgates of thought. To know your internal 'organs' and how they function, to feel things and know that they are mortal. A firm prop in the floodgates now, sometimes, I think I could think about her for hours if left unchecked. I wonder how she deals with that…

"Roger, you should start the car if we are going to leave."

Her voice, like a knife, snaps the doorstop in half and the floodwaters are closed off to me again for a time. I start the Griffon and the car purrs to life under the gentle turn of the keys. The car moves gracefully with the barest touch of my foot to the pedal.

It is good that some things remain the same.

This sudden attraction… no, I cannot be attracted to her. Just because she's pretty… smart… she's still a machine! No matter how much she's progressed she will never be human, Roger Smith!

"I have never seen this part of the city before, Roger," her voice is soft, calming.

A set of nightmares should not produce this reaction. Just because she saved me from them… she didn't even say anything about them. Perhaps her face in the moonlight was just another hallucination, her kindness a mere apparition by a fevered mind. What then of this feeling?

But I could not feel so at ease with her if it were merely pretend. And the hand I grasped the other night was real, no matter what else. And the body next to mine, synthetic or not was warm next to me when I woke up. The hair was hers; the hands pressed gently against my chest were hers, even the thigh under my hand as I touched it tentatively.

All of it was real.

For that night at least, all of it was real.

He just kept driving. I tried to ask him about the area, but I soon realized he was not listening to me. I stopped asking questions after that. And then he pulled up here, at this house. It seems like it should be familiar, this house, but I cannot understand why.

"Roger, this is not the proper address."

Suddenly he comes to life again.

"Oh," he says quickly, shifting gears in his giant car and moving us on.

There is something familiar about that house. I should not remember it, I have not been there that I can recall. The car moves on, he leaves the area. Why does that feel so familiar?

"So we'll check with the girl first?" I nod. "Try to be a little more down to earth with her, Roger."

Is that jealousy I hear? We get out and I seal up the car before following Dorothy into the building. The woman at the small reception desk smiles at us kindly. "Have you come for a portrait?"

"Uh, no, we've come to meet Miss Dorland."

"You must be the man that Mister Dorland hired to retrieve the figurines then."

"That I am, Miss…"

"Misses Peterson, at your service," she makes a small note in the book in front of her. I look around as she comes out from behind the counter. "I'll take your coats, and your jacket, Mr. Smith."

"Uh…"

"Such a finely tailored jacket would surely get paint on it, and Miss Hope does not use much black paint," the woman adds in an aside to Dorothy, "she isn't partial to seeing it on others."

I see a bemused look on Dorothy's fate.

"Misses Peterson, who's there?" that must be her voice.

"The man your father hired to find the statuettes, and a young lady."

"Send them up."

"It appears you're forced to break your own rules, Roger," Dorothy says with the hint of a smile on her face. Lousy girl. I take off my gloves and put them in my coat pocket before following her up the stairs to the small first floor studio.

The room, for all practical purposes, is a wreck. On one wall are hanging, unframed, pictures so lifelike they appear to be photographs, some in rigid style, others more fluid. Along the floor are various canvases with varying degrees of completion. A sturdy, but older looking, couch lies against the wall lined with windows next to a desk stacked in papers and littered with paint tubes. Three easels are in various places around the room, and a small path leads to an open area against one wall that has a large gray area painted on it, various chairs set close by. The path also leads to the couch, where a pillow and blanket are strewn.

No one is in the room, but the young lady, dark hair pulled back from her face by a messier braid than what the picture held, looks at the area with the single chair in the open space. Her canvas is green, the gray wall not looking its color, and the chair takes shape as she adds a few final touches.

"My name is Roger Smith, Miss Dorland, and this is Dorothy Waynewright. Your father…"

"So he calls himself," she says crossly, finally turning cold eyes to take in the interlopers. "You," she points at Dorothy, "sit."

She looks at me briefly before complying with the demand, sinking down slowly to keep it in one piece. "Fold your hands in your lap and turn your chin towards the Negotiator."

"How did you-?"

"Despite the beliefs of certain people I am neither unaware of the current events in the city, nor am I stupid. Please turn your chin towards me a little bit more, Dorothy."

"So you know why I came."

"_Father_ hired you to get back my birthday present. I do hope you find them."

"Can you tell me a little about the statuettes, Miss Dorland?"

"If you don't start calling me Hope we're going to have a problem. Now… they were each made of ebony inset with silver and ivory."

"Why not gold?"

"Because." She reaches to a table behind her, while still watching Dorothy breathe carefully, and finally steals a glance at the paints to choose the right one. Ivory white. "They were six inches in height, there were twenty-two to represent the major arcana. Each had a different name. If you would like a list of them… I have one on my desk."

"Uh…"

She rolls her eyes and takes three steps, yanking a paper off the top of one of the stacks and moves back to her chosen easel with practiced ease. "Step carefully."

"Might I inquire how you are so ready for these questions?"

"Two reasons," she hands him back the paper. "The plausible one is that the Military police already came by, it was yesterday, and they wanted to know the same you do. If you could get a copy of that to Major Dastun so he'll stop breathing down my neck, I'd be grateful. Now turn the other way about an inch." Dorothy is sitting almost motionless, but obeys the command, again.

"I see."

"You want to know the other reason."

"Why do I have the feeling you aren't going to tell me?"

"I don't know, but for whatever reason, you're right."

It is amusing to see the look on Roger's face as she answers the questions he's thinking. "Well then… why are you painting Dorothy?"

"She wants me to."

He looks at me oddly. "Dorothy?"

How can she read my mind? "Yes, Roger?"

"You want her to?"

"She is a wonderful artist, Roger. I think she was waiting for us."

He glances at the canvas, no doubt looking at the picture she's doing. She spares him a brief glance before turning back to me. "Whoever made you knew what they were doing."

"I believe he did," I respond. She is blunt, very to the point. Perhaps that is what comes of knowing the outcome to every situation as she indeed seems to. Roger mutters something too low for her ears, but I catch it easily. I wonder what he means by calling her a 'mind-reader'. She smiles at me, a warm, friendly smile that not many people give me, considering my stature and dress.

"Sorry to interrupt," Roger says after a moment, "but we've got to be going."

We are supposed to go to the crime scene next. "I do not think Major Dastun will allow me onto the scene as readily as you alone, Roger."

"I know," he says with a tone implying he had been debating the same point. Hope continues to paint, and then she sets down her pallet, grabbing a piece of lead from the table with her most used paints. "So, Miss Hope, what do you think?"

"It will be fine for Dorothy to stay, if she wishes it."

"I do."

"Well then," Roger says with the disbelief still an undertone in his voice, "I'll come back and pick you up. If there's anything else you can think of, Miss Hope, please don't hesitate to call," he hands her a card, which she sets aside without much thought. He looks at me for a long moment, and then at the lights in the room, as thought they make me look different.

"I'll be back for you, ok Dorothy?"

I nod. It isn't as though I expected otherwise. If you didn't come back for me I would walk home. It isn't as far as it could be. "Good bye, Roger."

He leaves, I hear the door downstairs and I return my eyes to Hope.

"You should really tell him."


	13. Interlude - Seen Them All

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Seen Them All**

"You've seen one crime scene, you've seen them all."

I'm almost startled by Dastun's words as he comes up behind me from where I am formally requesting a copy of the police reports on the burglary. "Dastun," I say in greeting.

"So what's in it for you this time, Negotiator?" his voice is easy, relaxed. He hasn't been so relaxed since before the attack at the harbor. For a moment, thinking about the attack brings back the three misshapen monstrosity megaduces to mind, and Dastun repeats his question.

"I've been hired to retrieve the statuettes."

"Have you had better luck with Miss Dorland then?"

I reach into my jacket and pull out a copy of the paper she gave me. "Well she did tell me to give you this, in hopes that you would stop questioning her."

"For all I know, she was a party to the robbery."

I blink at him. Dastun's many things, but not one for throwing things out without meaning behind them. "You've been to her studio, you know she's probably been there since she got it."

"Probably. She gets all kinds in there."

"What do you know that you aren't saying?"

"Nothing, except that innocent little Miss Hope has done portraits for even the big shots in this city." Dastun straightens his cufflinks and tie and glances around, taking the paper I've handed him and giving it off to a duty sargeant.

"Rosewater?"

"The very same. Actually, quite a few people you might remember. And not the Rosewater you think."

"Not Alexander, then?"

"No. Gordon."

I blink again, finding myself speechless. Quickly I put on a blank face. "It's not surprising. Alex inherited Paradigm from Gordon, many years ago. Gordon Rosewater was an important man."

"Who now farms tomatoes in a suburb far enough away to constitute being a suburb."

"So?"

"Why would she paint the predecessor and not the reigning Rosewater?"

Indeed. I start to respond, but Dastun is called off by one of his sergeants. Pondering this question, I return to my search for a copy of the reports.


	14. Interlude - Girl Talk

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Girl Talk**

"Tell him what?"

"Even I can tell, Dorothy." Hope continues to paint, her brush moving in intricate strokes on the canvas. She glances at the wall off to the corner that I cannot see for a second, and then back to her canvas. "You're no ordinary android. And you love him, don't you?"

I do not respond, for a long moment I simply hold my pose.

And then, when it seems that Hope will not speak again until I do, I open my mouth, "It doesn't matter what I think I might feel, Roger will never see me as anything more than a machine."

"You're wrong."

If it were possible for me to be startled, I think I might be by that.

"The Negotiator _thought _of you as only a machine, until he didn't."

"You make little sense, Miss Hope."

"I'm making perfect sense. At least as much sense, Dorothy, as I was designed to."

"Designed?"

"There are some things I'm going to tell you about myself that I'm entrusting you with. You cannot tell the Negotiator, but in order to protect him, you will need to know them." She pauses, and sets the pallet down on the table, and the brush on the tray of her easel. "Can you accept that? Or should I not tell you what he can't know?"

I start to speak, and she interrupts.

"If you were just a normal android, you would be incapable of lying to him, or any human."

"I accept."

"I knew you were special."


	15. Scene 8 Card Reader

**Act Fourteen - Scene 8: Card Reader**

_'It is impossible to tell the future. To read minds. How can that be? The girl looks so serious, but can that really be the cause? Mr. Dorland said that his daughter had endured things he could not imagine. Perhaps, as someone said, the mind can be forced into a state in which more of the brain is utilized than normal. It seems appropriate. Either she has senses and wit sharpened to the accuracy of the hearing a blind man develops, or something along those lines. Perhaps whatever ordeals she endured outside the domes brought her the heightened accuracy at deducing human thought, or perhaps she can, indeed, read minds. She and Dorothy seemed close after only the few hours I had been gone… but then three hours can be an eternity, at times. I certainly felt so to me.'_

Misses Peterson is dozing quietly as I return, so I make an effort to remain silent as I hang both my coat and jacket near Dorothy's. I move carefully up the stairs, one eye on her sleeping form and the other on the closed door.

I reach the top step… a shallow landing, and hear the two occupants of the room, one laughing softly and the other speaking in a light voice. Dorothy has never laughed… I turn the handle and open the door to find the two of them in much the same positions, but Hope is seated at her easel rather than standing.

"It is customary to knock, Roger," Dorothy says accusatorily.

"Oh, don't mind it, Dorothy, I'm sure he was only worried to hear us so happy-like."

I stammer some unintelligible response and Hope grins at me.

"Take a seat, Negotiator, I just have to find something for Dorothy and then you may go." I look over at Dorothy, who shrugs nonchalantly.

This is more emotion than I have seen from the dour girl since her father was killed. Timothy Waynewright… did he grasp what torture he had done to his poor daughter? Or was it all about himself?

"Roger, sit down," Dorothy stands and motions to her chair.

"Ah…" the noise of Hope's voice echoes out from somewhere towards the back of the room, around a corner. I hadn't noticed a corner. She follows shortly after her words, the quiet slap of her bare feet upon the wood floor the only noise indicating her movement. She walks over to Dorothy and hands her a small wooden box with six letters emblazoned on the lid and another single word carved into each side.

'Psyche?' 'Tarot.'

Dorothy takes the box with a polite murmur of, "Thank You, Miss Hope," as the other girl regains her seat. For a long moment I look between the two of them, trying to reconcile the over serious young ladies I left here earlier with the quickly fading sight of easiness between them.

"I didn't mean to disturb you two, I really should have knocked," I say in a mournful tone.

"It's all right, Roger, Norman is probably waiting on us at home."

I don't think I've ever heard her say that. 'At home,' the words sound nice, good coming easily from her mouth. She holds the box securely against her chest with both hands wrapped firmly about it.

I stand and she turns to Hope, "Good night, Miss Hope."

She smiles an indulgent smile and shakes her head a moment before standing and, with a simple movement of her foot, pushes the stool she had herself settled upon under the table directly behind her, picking up her paints in one fluid motion. And quickly, as I watch, the look of intense concentration returns. But unless I am mistaken, there is less displeasure to the expression, as though she has finally finds her work stimulating and worthwhile.

We leave the room and I shut the door quietly behind us.

"You two seemed to get along well."

"Hope is a nice person. I like her."

There it is again, she 'likes' someone. "Dorothy, what's in the box? Tarot?"

"The tarot cards that the figurines are based on," she says slowly. "There is a test she wants me to do before I return."

"Return?"

"She has to finish the portrait."

"I'm sure that she has more…" We get quietly into our jackets and head out of the main room, Misses Peterson still slumbering quietly on her desk. I open the door for Dorothy and she steps outside ahead of me.

"Miss Hope said that she wanted to paint me, more than any of her other subjects, even though I am an android. She said that it would take a few days for her to complete it; but that she had another project she needed to finish. I am supposed to return on Tuesday."

"It seems you made a good impression on her," I say with a pleased note to my voice.

"Why not? Some people in the world aren't louses."

I look over at her and start laughing.

She doesn't respond for a long moment, merely waiting for me to unseal the car, which I do so. She finally turns to look at me with that serious expression on her face again. "Roger, I have a question."

Composing myself I get into the car and settle behind the steering wheel. "What's that?"

"Is it wrong to want to help someone?"

"Of course not. What brings this on?"

"Even if it might cost you something dear to yourself?"

"It depends on whether or not what they need help with is something you think is worthy."

She mulls that over and I start the car.

"Do you ever do such things?" her voice is quiet, in the cabin of the car. The air hangs heavily between us. I mull that over as we round the familiar corner towards Big Ear's hangout.

"Sometimes I do."

"Is that why you turn down Paradigm?"

"Part of it, yes. It depends on the morals of the situation, Dorothy. I don't believe in the policies that Alex Rosewater employs to get his objectives completed, so I don't help him. I don't believe that the ends justify the means."

"And yet you're willing to help Mr. Dorland salvage his relationship with Hope. What is the difference between the two? Both require strenuous efforts."

"Mister Dorland is not trying to reconcile with his daughter for profit. He truly wishes to be able to interact with his daughter as a father should."

"I don't believe that is the case, Roger. And I do not think Mister Dorland cares much at all for Miss Hope."

For every one step forward I feel I am taking six steps backwards. But where am I headed? I pull up in front of the Speakeasy and stop the car. I don't know if this is the sort of place Dorothy should be seen in… she is a lady, according to Norman, and the Speakeasy is… a low-rate bar. But worse things have happened, and I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask her at least.

"Would you rather come in or remain here? It should only take me a few moments," she looks at me with pleased eyes and says, "I will come inside, if you don't mind."

"I don't," I say, unlocking the doors and climbing out. She climbs out as well and I seal the car again. Entering, she veers off and leans against the bar, coat tightly secured around her waist. I take my normal beer from the barkeep and take my seat in the back.

"It's kind of late for you to be out, isn't it?"

"Another tidbit of gentlemanly advice? Do I have a curfew?"

"No, but obviously a smart mouth."

I pop the top of the beer and take a swig. It hits my throat and almost makes me cough. I haven't had anything nastier than wine in a while. "What can you tell me about these statuettes, the twenty-one Tarot?"

"How you got your hands in that finger trap I'll never guess. The statuettes were brought into the city before the Incident, imported from one of the farther countries. Since then they bounced from owner to owner until Herbert Dorland bought them for his daughter."

"And the robbery?"

"One of two things - either someone trying to get at Dorland, or another fanatic decided to try them out." He folds his newspaper to look at the bottom half. "Supposedly when placed around the proper signifier, the statuettes reveal the future."

"Some big racketeer?"

"No. Cataclysms, disasters… perhaps even the next wave of whatever hit that day you were shot."

"Thanks for the heads up on…"

"Don't mention it. I figure that if you died and I said something to you about it I wouldn't loose much, and if you saved the city because of it then I wouldn't loose either."

"I still feel a reward is in order."

"All right, then tell me what you're doing with the lady at the bar."

"Doing with her?"

"Isn't she yours?"

"No." I take another sip. "But she came to me."

"Did you ever think that maybe she was yours?" Big Ear opens the paper to see the insides. "Seems awfully attached for some stray."

"Look if you mean that-" I catch her eyes on me as one of the men seated close to her strikes up a conversation. "She's a free person."

"Something you should know about Herbert," my ears prick at the tone in Ear's voice. "He knows more about computers than anyone else at GenuTech."

"So that's where he works." I take another swig. The bottle is half empty. "So?"

"He and his 'wife' were never really married. The two of them got together only about fifteen years ago." Big Ear pauses to look over at the bar. "The child isn't his, even though he adopted her unofficially."

"Any idea how they got together?"

"The only thing anyone knows is that there was a project 'Psyche' that the two of them quit at the same time, taking the little girl with them. The woman ran away and was abducted seven years ago, leaving him with the girl to raise on his own."

"Any idea what happened to the mother?"

"Turned up in a body bag a few weeks ago." He turns the page in the newspaper with an air of finality. Either he will not speak on the matter any more, or he doesn't know anything else about it.

I stand and drop the customary fold of twenties on his table. "Thanks. Your warning put me out ahead of something." Whatever it is.

"Be careful with Rosewater's secretary, Negotiator, she's playing another side as well."

"Duly noted, I'll see you again," I leave the bottle on the table and head towards the bar where Dorothy is speaking dispassionately with a burly man with a stubble-covered face.

"Is it time to leave all ready?" her voice is dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes." She nods to the man, who smiles wistfully, and then follows me out to the car.

The Griffon sits there, encased in its armored plating, and the streetlamps turn on. I look up at them and Dorothy moves to her door. I press the button on the remote access pad and then open the door for her.

As I am getting into the car she asks, "So today was productive?" she is still cradling the box in her grip, this time on her lap.

"Yes. We met the daughter, I got to see the crime scene, but I've got research to do still."

"Do you need to figure out what 'Psyche' means, Roger?"

I nod, pressing the gas pedal some to speed our return home. It's almost seven as it is, and I think I should write down what I saw this afternoon. "Perhaps I can explain?"

"How would you know?"

"Miss Hope knew quite a bit about the subject, which she related to me during the third hour after you left." So that is what they were doing.

"Please do, Dorothy." I don't give her enough credit normally, but… that's just how I am.

The explanation takes the entire ride home. Roger seemed a bit dubious when I began, but he now seems to believe me. I don't know if that's because of the evidence or the fact that he's trying to be nice to me, but for whichever reason, I am glad he believes me.

We get out of the car in the dark garage and I stop, hearing the noises of the gears high above us.

"Roger, let's hurry inside. I'm cold."

He nods, closes up the car again and we head into the house. I lock the door behind us and lean against it. "Dorothy? Aren't you coming?"

"On my way, Roger." I just had to be sure it wasn't who I think it was. I couldn't let anything happen to you, Roger. I would never forgive myself. I hold the box carefully, remembering Hope's words, '_You should learn a lot about yourself through him, and maybe these will help you learn more about this man you care so deeply about._'

I join him in the elevator, "So, Dorothy, what kept you?"

"Roger can I ask you a favor?"

His look deepens to one of contemplation and he watches my face evenly, "Certainly."

"May I try an experiment?"


	16. Interlude Fragments

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Fragments**

_'It was a great chance that I took when I asked this favor, but if what Miss Hope said is true, I'll try it. Even the possibility of the truth.'_

The room is lit only by candles. Norman has gone to bed, long since. The clock reads eleven thirty, and the dinner dishes are clean, dry, and have been replaced in the cabinet. It is Tuesday evening, and the master of the house sits with its mechanical mistress. They are seated on the floor, and dark garments enfold them.

"…the 'Psyche' Project was an attempt to retain the knowledge of the oldest people that survived. The idea behind it was to make all human knowledge accessible to a chosen few people. There were fourteen children involved in the experiment, along with several back ups…"

"Dorothy, what exactly is this supposed to prove?" Roger asks her quietly as she lays the cards from the carefully opened box on the floor.

"It is to determine your involvement in the project, Roger Smith, and mine."

Roger glances sharply up at Dorothy. "What do you mean, yours?"

"Hope said it was no coincidence that I came into her studio today." She lays another card. "That Mr. Rosewater said I would be coming," and another. "It was only a matter of time."

Roger's eyes narrow slightly. He recalls the dreams he had just before his encounter with R*D. "Dorothy…"

Dorothy places the last of the cards on the floor in the pattern her hands had been twitching to place them in since she touched the box that Hope handed her in the studio and she looks up at Roger. "Yes, Roger Smith?"


	17. Interlude Lost Paradigm

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Lost Paradigm**

_'It is odd for Dorothy to ask me for anything. As odd for her to ask as me, and strange enough we have both accepted. I wonder what kept her in the garage after me. I will ask her later.'_

After a moment's pause, I responded. The candlelight flickered momentarily as I drew in breath to speak, and it seemed to soften her features so that I could forget, momentarily, that she is a machine. As soon as she drew her fingertips from the last card, her eyes deadened and she began to speak.

I don't know if the complete hollowness of her voice scared me more than the words she spoke, but I cannot exactly remember the words now, only what they meant. After a few moments, I blacked out, and when I woke, it was here, in my own bedroom, with Norman at the bedside.

"Dorothy!" I sit up and call out to her, but Norman shakes his head sadly.

"I'm afraid calling for her won't work, Master Roger."

"What's happened to her?"

"Apparently something about today's work shorted out a few of her circuits. She's powered down and resting in her own room, sir. Shall I turn her on again?"

I pause, taking a gasping breath. The memories began to flood in as soon as I opened my eyes, and I am afraid that she will cause another flashback if I see her just now. I shake my head, and lean back, putting one wrist over my forehead and closing my eyes.

"Since you're feeling a little better, how about I leave you to sleep till morning, sir?"

"Norman…"

"Yes, sir?"

"What woke you?"

"Why, Miss Dorothy's scream, of course. I was having a pleasant dream about… well I rather forget what it was, Master Roger, but it was exceedingly comfortable, when I was woken by an ear-splitting cry from the sitting room. I grabbed my robe and came in quickly to find you sprawled on the floor, and Dorothy crying. She helped me to get you in here and change your clothes before she said that she needed a little down time and would take herself to bed as soon as she cleaned up the mess in the other room."

"I see. Thank you, Norman."

"Good night, sir."

"Norman."

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you remember when you first became my butler?"

"Vaguely, sir. You were just a boy."

"How old was I?"

"I don't properly recall, but you must've been nine or ten. A very quiet, serious young man. You always seemed to anticipate what I had to say."

"Good night, Norman."

"See you in the morning, sir."


	18. Scene 9 Gunmetal and Strawberry Perfume

**Act Fourteen - Scene 9: Gunmetal and Strawberry Perfume**

_'It was much harder, I found, to shoot the Negotiator, as the plan called for, than I ever could have imagined. But the moment I saw her walking calmly at his side, with that serene almost-smile on her face… my finger pulled the trigger.'_

After breakfast, Dorothy still hasn't woken up, so I go check on her, only to find her room empty. "Norman!" I bellow, coming out into the sitting room to look over the place I last saw her.

"Yes, sir?" his voice is crackly, and I know that he's downstairs working on Big O.

"Where's Dorothy?"

"I believe she went out to the store, sir. She will, undoubtedly, return shortly."

"Thanks Norman," I manage before I start to pace the sitting room, agitated beyond belief that she would just get up and go out without saying good morning to me. I pause for a moment and evaluate that thought, that sensation. I'm angry that she didn't see me this morning…

"You could go and look for her, sir."

"Right." I dress hurriedly and fix my gloves on as I walk out the front door.

I thought I was doing nothing wrong, to let Roger Smith sleep in. He seemed almost dead tired last night after he passed out, and it took most of my remaining strength to carry him to his bedroom. In truth, Norman did most of the changing of his clothing. Something kept me distracted, though I could not quite put my finger on it. I shut down last evening to try and search my databanks to see what it was that I was remembering, but nothing quite came up. So I thought a walk while I did the day's shopping might be helpful.

I still hadn't the time to mend the hem of my usual dress, so I daringly put on the other outfit that hung in my closet. As of yet I hadn't touched it, for fear of how Roger might react, but suddenly his reactions, though of a great importance to me, were no longer hindering. Something Hope told me must've triggered this change in my behavior.

Perhaps something I told Roger caused the change in his.

I park the Gryphon and look around. Norman told me that this is where she usually does the shopping, and I'm inclined to believe him, since he and Dorothy share things like that, whereas Dorothy and I…

That thought is comforting. Dorothy and I share things.

I glance about, and then take off my sunglasses to see if I can see her any better with them off. There's no simulated sun in this dome, only usual overhead lights. It's hard to make her out in a crowd because she is so much shorter than most other people, but after a moment of searching I do indeed find her.

"Dorothy!" I call, and the figure that I have apparently guessed properly as being her pauses and turns her head towards my direction.

I move quickly through the crowds to catch up with her, and she looks up at me, almost startled. "Roger Smith," she says, her tone curious and animated, unlike the dull monotone of last night that scared me so, as she asks, "what are you doing here?"

*

Just as Alex predicted. There he is. Getting out of the car in downtown.

It would be easy to rid Paradigm of the dangerous Negotiator at this instant, but I can't bring myself to pull the trigger. And then I see her.

The thrice cursed android.

*

I hear the noise of the gunshot before he does, having better hearing, and jump forward, knocking him out of the way. I am not programmed to be able to hurt someone, but I am also not programmed to help them either, really. I think it is something I have come up with on my own. I want to protect Roger, if I can.

"Dorothy, what-" he starts, but then he hears the noise of the gunshot as well, and we are both tumbling to the concrete as the bullet hits.

At first my sensors do not notice the damage, and then, as I begin to 'bleed', I believe is the only proper term for it, and Roger growls, it hits me. "Dorothy, you were hit, weren't you?"

"I can… be repaired, Roger." But even as I say this I feel the power draining from my body, and loose control of first one, and then another of my systems at an alarming rate. I knew that I would take a hit for him, possibly if I had examined the angle and been paying attention, I would've known that just this would happen, but as it is… I was only thinking of him…

Her eyes go dead, and I hear an angry cry erupt from somewhere. From the reactions of the crowd around me, I can tell it was ripped from my throat. "Someone call the Military Police!" I shout, taking off through the crowd towards the rooftop I am sure the shot came from.

The memory of her tackle is fresh in my mind. She must've heard the gunshot before me and acted on instinct… her thin, strong arms latching around me in order to protect my body from the concrete she threw me into… A deep voice in the back of my mind reminding me that it might well be her last embrace. And with the anger inside me at the thought of that, I nearly fly up the fire escapes on the side of the building to where I am sure the shot came from.

*

But there is nothing left of me on the roof, Roger. Sorry to disappoint you.

It will take more than anger at me 'killing' the poor, pathetic android for you to catch me. I dropped the gun as soon as I fired the shot, knowing he wouldn't be hit, but secretly glad of it, and took off. Making my way out of the dome, I headed straight to the only place I wouldn't be traced.

The old subway tunnels. You're still afraid of subway tunnels, aren't you Roger?

And from there, I made my way back to Alex.

*

Nothing. I look around, and see the gun. For Dastun's sake I will remain calm. For his sake I won't touch the … murder weapon. I look off the rooftop and see that the Military Police have arrived. They've set up a perimeter around Dorothy's body and someone is questioning people where I went. Dastun knows I would've had to be here, and then he glances up in my direction. I nod.

My watch beeps and I glance down to see Norman's face. "Master Roger… Big O's systems just shut down internally. Has something happened?"

"You'd better get down here, Norman."

"Whatever's the matter, Master Roger?"

"Dorothy's been shot."

The ride to the station is not very long, and when we get there, several of the officers snap to attention as Roger leads the way inside. They all saw me dead on the concrete, I assume, and wonder how I could be walking around as well as I am. Roger heads straight for an office, and I follow him inside.

"Dastun, I need to see the weapon."

"What? Roger, some people do try to warn others before they barge into their offices."

He steps aside to show Dastun that I am there as well.

"I thought she was-"

"Androids cannot be killed, Major, only damaged beyond repair. Luckily, I was not."

Dastun sputters. "Why do you want to see the weapon?"

"I think you might have overlooked something I will catch."

"Roger…"

"It can't hurt to let her try, Dastun."

"This way then."

I pick up the gun, wearing the rubber gloves that were given to me to put on, and I see Roger cringe as I do so. I do not ask him but can guess that he is imagining the other me that haunts him sometimes. I lift the gun to eye level and examine it closely.

"Perfume," I say, and set down the weapon.

Roger and Dastun both start.

"This gun has the faint aroma of strawberry perfume on it."

"So the shooter was…" Dastun begins.

"A woman," Roger finishes. His face clouds over with thought, and I step back over to him, neatly removing the gloves from my small hands. They were too big anyway.

"Thank you," I say to Dastun before stepping out of the small room. I can tell that the two of them have things to say to one another, and do not wish to interrupt them.


	19. Interlude Invitation

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Invitation**

_'It was the waiting I hated most. Not knowing. Like Norman might mess up at repairing her, and I would never see her again. But I knew, deep down inside, that he wouldn't, he never had before.'_

Seated downstairs, so I could be closer to where she was being worked on, I was the only one available to answer the door when the courier came.

"Roger Smith?" the young man asked, as though he did not recognize me, and I suppose with my state of disarray, he shouldn't have been expected to.

"Speaking," I was surprised at the bass rumble in my own voice.

"I was sent to deliver you this invitation for the Saint's Day Ball."

I glance at the envelope the young man is holding out, and remember a time when I would've been overjoyed to go back and spend some time with my old comrades, if only for an hour or two, but I shake my head. "It seems you've come to the wrong place."

"Major Dastun was… most vehement that you should accept the invitation, sir."

I narrow my eyes at the young cadet in his dress uniform. He swallows, somewhat nervous, and I grudgingly take the envelope, but cut off his next sentence by slamming the door in his face.


	20. Interlude Reasonable Suspects

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Reasonable Suspects**

"Given that clue, do you have any leads?" I ask Dastun. It is so hard to talk about.

"We don't have much to go on, Roger."

"They tried to kill her, Dastun, who would want to do that?"

"Beck," he responds, after a moment of silence.

"He's in prison, isn't he?"

"Yes."

I ponder for a moment. Dastun speaks up, "Roger, whoever was shooting wasn't aiming at Miss Dorothy. We both know that. She put herself in the way so that you wouldn't be hit. Whoever shot Dorothy missed. They were aiming for you."

I cringe. "Who would want me dead then?"

"Who wouldn't? I occasionally do."

I glance at Dastun and he smiles. "You can't blame me, though, can you?"

"No."

"You really do seem to have a knack at making a mess of things, you know?"

"Would it help if I said I was sorry?"

"Are you saying it?"

"No."

"Then I guess it doesn't matter, does it."

"No, I suppose not."

"Have you turned down any important cases lately? Ones from powerful people?"


	21. Scene 10 Failed Mission

**Act Fourteen - Scene 10: Failed Mission**

_'It is never easy to report to Alex Rosewater and tell him that you have failed to do something properly. It is even harder for me, because though he has yet to get angry with me, we are both well aware what will happen when he does.'_

"So what you're saying is that you missed?"

"Unfortunately, Mr.- " he throws a glance at me that makes me correct myself, "Alex, unfortunately, that is correct."

"Then why didn't you take a second shot?"

"The android you believe was R*D's prototype was there, and she protected him."

"One pathetic machine stopped you from achieving the goal of your mission?" Alex raises his voice a little, but not to shouting level. Oddly, he isn't angry. "Well that's of little consequence."

"Sir?"

"I've arranged for the Negotiator to be invited to the Saint's Day Ball."

"I don't follow."

"Of course you don't."

I narrow my eyes at him, and it's safe to do that, because his back is turned.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand because I haven't told you anything about what I'm planning." He turns to look at me and I'm sure he notices that my eyes were slightly narrowed at first when he turned to look at me. "Angel, be patient. You'll hear it all soon enough."

"The Saint's Day Ball…"

"Be sure to have something appropriate to wear, Angel."

"Surely you don't mean-"

"Who else would be a suitable escort for me?"

I frown slightly and he smiles tolerantly at me, "If you want to know the plan you'll have to be a part in it, dear child."

"It's next week."

"That shouldn't be a problem, given the resources you have at your disposal."

"It won't be."

Alex nods and steps back over to the window, turning to face it properly. I sense a dismissal in his actions, and so I turn towards the door, only to be stopped by his voice. "A few memorable people will be there, of course."

I pause and glance back at him.

"A pity Beck couldn't join us. But he'll fulfill his role in the masquerade a little later. Time to begin the next stage of the plan, please tell me you'll join me, Angel?"

"Big Duo is almost complete," I respond, narrowing my eyes slightly at his biblical gesture of spread arms over the window.

"No, dear woman, Big Duo _is_ complete. It is almost time for it's unveiling."

"Who to pilot it though…" I start, voice skeptical and low.

"She's already been selected."

"You don't seriously intend to…" he throws a glance over his shoulder at me. "You do."

"Her field testing went rather well, you must admit."

"That was you who sent her to kill Roger?" I have broken pace in the conversation, and Alex leaps on my words.

"Who else would be able to create such a creature, if not Paradigm? Who could decide on programming for such a single-minded objective, as me? My father may have written the book, but I _will_," I cannot tell who he is trying to convince as he says these words, himself or me, "be the one to finish it, and not some wretched Negotiator."


	22. Interlude Reunion

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Reunion**

He was seated in the drawing room next to the piano when I came up the elevator with Norman. He was so immersed in thought that he didn't hear us at first. Hesitantly he reached out to touch a key, and the single note sounded, even to my ears, very despondent and sad. After a long moment of silence, Norman put a hand on the small of my back and gave a gentle push to move me forward. Then he turned and got back in the elevator to go back down to work on Big O.

"Roger," I say quietly. Immediately he sits up straight, turns, and, seeing me, gets to his feet. An envelope falls from his fingers to the floor and I take a hesitant step forward. He takes a few and we meet almost in the middle, him wrapping his arms around me tightly.

"I thought-"

"I know," I respond, my voice slightly muffled by his shirt. After a moment's hesitation, I put my arms around him as well.

A little later, as I sit in the drawing room and play piano for him, as he requested, I think to ask him, "Roger, what was in that envelope?"

"Hmm?" he looks up from his timers with a confused glance in my direction.

"The letter, Roger, the one you dropped on the floor."

"It was an invitation to the Saint's Day Ball."

"Saint's Day Ball?"

"Another silly tradition. Two months after Heaven's Day is Saint's Day. Originally it was to honor those who died in the Incident forty years ago, but it's since digressed into another excuse for the wealthy of the city, the dome dwellers, to throw expensive parties."

"Then why would you get an invitation to the Ball, Roger Smith?"

"The Saint's Day Ball is a fund raiser for the Military Police. As a former Lieutenant, I guess Dastun thinks it appropriate to invite me."

"Will you be going then?"

"What?"

"Will you attend?"

"Unthinkable. I have no reason to go." Then he pauses, and glances at me. "Would you like to go?"

"I've never been to a ball."

Roger considers this and pauses, standing. He picks up the envelope and opens it, scanning the contents. "You'll need a new dress." He looks at me, and then pauses. "Dorothy, where's the bullet hole?"

"What do you mean, Roger Smith?"

"You were shot…" he cringes, as though it is a painful memory for him, "where's the bullet hole?"

"I was not wearing this outfit when I was shot, Roger." I lift my hands from the keys and stand. "But you are correct, if I am going to escort you to the Ball, I will need a new dress."

"Dorothy, where are you going?"

"Shopping."

After a long pause he speaks up, setting the invitation on the music stand of the piano. "I'll drive you," he pats his pockets, looking for his keys. I find myself smiling a little, and he blinks. I point him at a mirror. "Right. You find my keys, I'll go get cleaned up."


	23. Scene 11 Finished Portrait

**Act Fourteen - Scene 11: Finished Portrait**

_'I returned to Hope's studio one final time after the sitting on Tuesday, to pick up the portrait she completed of me. It was far better than the one that Roger made, though I will never tell him that. At home, I took it and hung it up next to his on my bedroom wall. For a long while, I sat and looked at the two pictures, but I could not tell which one I liked more. And then I recalled the conversation that I had with Hope.'_

"What happened with the cards?" she asked as I handed her the cards back, with the box sealed around them once more.

"I do not remember, but Roger Smith was ill affected by them. He passed out."

Hope nodded thoughtfully. "You recall nothing of what happened?"

"I recall nothing more, at this point, than that I laid them out in a pattern on the floor. My memory banks are undergoing internal diagnostics."

"What happened?"

"I was shot protecting Roger Smith's life."

"You sound quite proud of that," she replied, covering the canvas with a cloth and then putting it in a case for me to carry back to Roger's mansion. "Were you badly damaged?"

"My tertiary memory banks were affected, and part of my secondary banks. The tertiary are what would equate to short term memory, if I were human."

"You seem to be doing quite well."

"I routinely back up my tertiary banks."

"That isn't what I meant. Was Mr. Smith upset that you were injured?"

"Reasonably so."

"What do you mean by reasonably?"

I turned my eyes downward a little. If I were capable of blushing, I would be, and I believe that Hope knew that. She did not press the matter further with me. "Will you be going to the Saint's Day Ball?"

I looked up at her again. "How did you know?"

"I was certain the Negotiator would receive an invitation. He rarely goes, but something told me if you asked he would take you."

"He asked if I would like to go. I responded truthfully."

"I hope you have more fun than I do."

"You'll be there?"

"My _father_, or so he calls himself, is required by his company to go."

"What has that to do with you?"

"Everyone who attends is required to bring an escort. It's a silly rule that was added this year."

"Roger."

He glances up from the items on his desk to look at me where I am dusting his hourglasses. "Yes, Dorothy?"

"Do you have any leads?"

"I have a feeling that whoever shot you was involved in the robbery of the statuettes, if that's what you mean."

"You only have four days left to find them."

"I know, Dorothy," his voice is calm and without malice, for once. His eyes seem kinder when he looks at me now. "I'm following up a few things."

"Roger, could I see the gun used to shoot at you?"

"It's down at the Military Police Headquarters."

"Could you not get in to see it?"

"What good will it do you, Dorothy?"

"I have heightened senses, Roger Smith. Perhaps there is something about the gun that I will notice that the police, and you, have not."

He sighs, but I can tell he is giving in. "If you insist."

"I do."

"Get your coat."

"Norman, have you seen Dorothy?"

"Last I saw her, sir, she was in her room, looking at her portraits."

I hadn't thought to look for her there, she seems to spend so little time in her own room that it slipped my mind she had one. I knock gently on the door and hear her call out that I should come in. "What's that doing up there?" I ask as soon as I step in the door, seeing the horrid portrait of her I did a few months ago hanging on the wall.

"I like it. So I keep it there." She pauses. "If it bothers you, you can leave the room. Or… if you want, I can take it down."

"No," I answer quickly, somehow gratified that it is there on the wall and not hidden away in the attic with other useless and imperfect things. "I think I'm… glad you have it here."

"Well then," she says, leaving the end of her comment open to speculation. "Would you like to sit down?" It is more of a prompt for some action on my part than an innocent query, and I sit down on the end of her bed.

"I'm sorry," I say in a low voice, my eyes dropping to stare at my hands.

"For what?"

"Putting you in danger. I'm supposed to be protecting you, Dorothy, not getting you hurt."

"Hurt is an interesting word, Roger."

I glance up at her, and find that she is arranging some black material in her lap and her hands are moving swiftly with a needle and thread. "You cannot hurt a machine."

"Stop calling yourself that!" I snap, and then pause. The echo of my words in the air is almost visible in the manner it has shaken the two of us. "You aren't a machine, Dorothy. Not…"

There is a knock on the door.

"What is it, Norman?" she calls, though her eyes remain locked on mine.

"A phone call from the Military Police. Apparently word has come on the statuettes."

She stands and steps over to open the door, with an air of finality. "Dorothy-" I start to say, but she looks at me again, sharply, and I feel slightly weak.

"You have a job to do," she reminds me in a gentle voice. "I am not going anywhere."

I smile confidently and get to my feet, walking out the door with a sidelong glance down at her. Another sentence I love to hear out of her. _I am not going anywhere._

Roger leaves the room, and the lingering affect of what I am almost sure he was about to say sticks with me, and I find it necessary to sit down. After approximately twenty minutes on the phone, he knocks politely at my door and asks that I accompany him down to the Military Police Station.

I look down at my mending and then at my clothing and say that it will take me a few moments to prepare. Shortly thereafter, I have slipped on my coat and step into the elevator, doing up the front of it.

We get into the Gryphon and head off.

Roger doesn't say a word, but, for once, I do not need him too.


	24. Interlude Planned Betrayal

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Planned Betrayal**

_'Jealousy is one thing. Insanity is another.'_

In the end, I couldn't allow my own actions to be the downfall of Roger Smith. I could not afford to let myself be the one brought to justice, but it didn't mean that I was willing to let him fall into Alex's little trap either. I thought, assumed, his reasoning for attending the Saint's Day Ball was to find the statuettes that I stole from the museum in order to draw him to Hope Dorland. The easiest way I could think of to deter him from going to the Ball was to return them.

How very, very wrong I was.


	25. Interlude Merchandise

**Act Fourteen - Interlude: Merchandise**

"What do you mean, they just turned up?"

"Exactly what I said on the phone, Negotiator," Dastun only uses that tone of voice when he and Roger have argued about something. I stand quietly in the corner with my hands folded in front of me. "The case and the figures were dropped off at the precinct by a man dressed in a black jacket and wearing a hooded raincoat."

"There hasn't been rain for months, Dastun. It's been snowing almost daily since…" Roger trails off. Since just after the large battle at the bay. When he was shot. When he started having the nightmares.

"I know that just as well as you do, but this man was wearing a hooded raincoat, and no one got a glimpse of his face." He pushes the case towards Roger. "Isn't it enough, just this once, that your case is finished? Can't you let anything go without pushing until there's no room left for interpretation?"

Roger takes the case by the handle and opens the lid, examining the figures. He glances at me and I nod, stepping forward to inspect them.

"That's why I quit the Military Police, if you recall."

I close the lid on the case and Roger latches it, lifting it from the table and turning to open the door to Dastun's office before he motions me to precede him from the room and lead the way out of the building.

Roger seems angry, but he ignores whatever's making him so mad as we get in the car and asks me how the fittings for my dress went that morning.

"Roger," I interrupt him quietly as he starts the Gryphon.

"Yes Dorothy?"

He glances at me in the mirror, and suddenly I don't feel like asking him any serious questions.

"Does it have to be black?"

He chuckles.


End file.
